Dumpster Fetish
by Choice
Summary: A collection of vignettes, from Kurt and Puck's points-of-view, on Kurt's near-daily trips to the trash. Slash; Kurt/Puck.
1. Morning Trash

**Dumpster Fetish**

Ch. 1: Morning Trash,

of 3 Chapters

* * *

I mentally prepared myself for it before it happened, as I always did. The smirks grew wider and wider, and some snickers were let loose. A strange, pimply ogre was lifting me up, up, up, and I could see across the entire parking lot for a quick second. And then… trash.

Let me tell you something, O sympathizing audience that resides only within my brilliant mind: being tossed into a dumpster is no fun. You're surrounded by disgusting, smelly things: old cafeteria-grade goulash seeps down to the roots of your hair; a Hershey bar wrapper will somehow manage to crawl up your pant leg; the Prada shoes you're wearing will positively _reek_ of spoilt milk. It's not easy on the soul.

I remember my first dumpster toss, as if it happened just this morning. Puckerman, at the time a new recruit to the team, had snatched me as I was walking to school, tugging me towards the parking lot with a weird expression on his face.

You know how people look, just before they're about to steal from their father's alcohol stash for the first time? Well, that's how Puck looked just then. Guilt seemed permanently etched in his furrowed brow, and his mouth was twisted in a disgusted scowl. I was yakking and rambling on in nervousness, because what would _you _do if your middle school crush was suddenly manhandling you, dragging you towards someplace sure to be secluded? Sure, it was a bit naïve on my part for thinking Mr. Homophobe was taking me out for a quick smooch, but give me a break: I was an adolescent, complete with high hopes and a dangerous curiosity.

Imagine my surprise when Puck tugs me over to a waiting group of tall, ominous football monkeys. All seemed to wear their letterman jackets like a king would haul around a crown, and I had the passing desire to scoff. Thank God I'm not that stupid, or else I would have probably gotten a punch to the face then, too.

One of the seniors, a mean, big-boned and broad-shouldered black man named Ashley (seriously, _Ashley_), was at the head of the congregation, sporting a frightening smirk. "Well, lookit this, you guys," He crowed to his posse, "Looks like Puckerman_ does_ have a pair."

I turned to Noah then, my eyes widened in no small amount of fear. I remember my whole body shivering, like Barney, my neighbor's Chihuahua does whenever he's scared. He resolutely looked over my head, staring out at something in the distance.

I gave a small peep of surprise when I was hauled off the ground, flailing about in an attempt to break free of whomever had grabbed me. But it was no use: the oaf was just too strong and I was just too slight.

My body was hauled, head-first, into the dumpster, and I cried out, mostly in surprise, when I plopped into something horrendously sticky and smelly. Before I could react, the lid was shut and I was in the dark.

I hollered and cried and begged and pleaded with them, to _please let me out_, but someone had to have been sitting on the top of the dumpster, because I couldn't get out for a long time.

When I was reduced to tears, huddled in one corner of the bin, the lid finally creaked back open. I snapped my neck upwards, only to have my nose nudge against an outstretched hand. My eyes quickly traveled up that slightly toned arm, to the face it belonged to. "Puckerman," I spat with as much venom as I could evoke at the time. "What the hell do you want from me now? Don't you think I've been humiliated enough for one day?"

He opened his mouth and it seemed like he was about to apologize. But the moment quickly passed, and he frowned down at me. "Whatever." Was all he said as he walked off, but at least he'd left the dumpster open.

I won't go into detail, but let's just say that I spent fifth period not in Ms. Appleby's algebra class, but in my bed, sobbing my eyes out and bitching about the complete unfairness of life to Gucci, my childhood toy. (What can I say? Fashion sense came to me before I could properly walk.) Of course, my little blue stegosaurus didn't offer me much support, but something to hug is something to hug.

As the years passed, so did my angst over being the new plaything for McKinley's elite. After all, there are only so many variants of "_your kind_ belongs in the trash" until you've heard them all, and once you've heard most of them twice, they lose their effect.

But even as time has flown by, I still always feel that reliable tangle of fear, sitting in the pit of my stomach, as the metal lid is slammed down forcefully enough to rattle the entire dumpster. My eyes always widen in the dark, struggling to see anything, and my breath quickens as the feeling of claustrophobia overcomes me.

But it's just a moment, and then it passes like the stench of knockoff perfumes in the halls.

And every time, when I finally hear the weight lift off of the top of the trash bin, a minute later the lid opens, seemingly on its own. And every time, there's an outstretched hand.

That arm has grown more and more muscled since my first Dumpster Day, but the look on Puck's face has never changed. Guilt meshes with sympathy, anger with disappointment. And I always ask "why", but after a moment of floundering, I never get an answer, just a "whatever" and a conveniently opened dumpster to escape from.

I wonder, what would Noah Puckerman think if I said I didn't mind it anymore? What would he do if I told him that I've come to not really mind the foul odor of garbage, the disgusting feeling of having my hand sink into a blob of mystery meat, because it's worth it to see his face and the small amount of care it shows every time?

* * *

Author's Commentary: _YAY_ for my first fan fiction in forever! (And _YAY_ for alliterations! Seriously.) I have to thank Glee, which I do not own in any shape or form, for the kick-in-the-arse to my muse. I appreciate it, while s/he may not.  
So this is the first chapter of a three-chaptered story, though the "three chapters" bit is still up for debate, depending on where everything goes when I actually get to writing the rest of this. I wanted to shoot this out to the masses of Gleeks out there, because I think there aren't enough Puck/Kurt stories out there. At last, not for a fangirl like me who always has hundreds of pages of Harry/Draco slash to look forward to in the Harry Potter category of FF.  
Anyway! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I look forward to reviews, Story Alerts, whatever. It's all a huge honor to a flailing writer such as myself. Now, off to eat Halloween candy and search for more inspiration within my Civics text.

* * *


	2. The Only Exception

**Dumpster Fetish**

Ch. 2: The Only Exception,

of 3 Chapters

* * *

I watched as one of the guys hauled Kurt off the ground. I watched as he paused, holding the slighter boy up in midair, like those dudes do in ballets (or whatever). I watched as the brunet was chucked into the garbage bin, head-first, like a human dart being sent home, right to the bull's-eye.

I watched, and I did absolutely nothing to stop it from happening, like I was watching it all from my living room couch. Like this was some really bad knockoff of Degrassi. (I only know what that Canadian show is because of my sister, _really._)

You may think I'm a really mean guy. Well, I'm not. So then, you'll automatically assume I'm some sappy pansy-boy who spends his afternoons going at a pint of _Cherry Garcia _and bawling over the newest Oprah.

Well _I'm not._ I just… Kurt's the exception, okay?

I don't know why, but the first day of high school, freshman year--hell, even before then, I noticed Kurt. And by noticed, I mean _noticed_. The guy's built like a fucking teenage girl, for Chrissakes! He has curves--nothing like an hourglass figure, but his hipbones still flare out more than, say, Finn's. (Gross, bad example.) And his voice, even after puberty had passed him, was higher, _feminine._

Sure, he doesn't have knockers, and I know his hair isn't all pretty and long and stuff, but for some reason…

I think he's kinda cute. For a dude, I mean.

But don't get the wrong idea; I'm not into other guys. I don't get off from gay porn or sequins. I certainly wouldn't want to be screwed by some other dude.

But Kurt Hummel is _hot._

…I mean, _cute_.

And the other day, after I watched one of the newer dudes from the team dump Kurt into the dumpster, I had this weird feeling. I didn't know what it was at first, but later on, when I went to bed…

Well, let's just say I was up twenty minutes later, panting and dizzy and my covers suspiciously sticky. And let's also "just say" that I hadn't been dreaming of Quinn Fabray. Or the chick with the really nice in-ground pool down the block.

I didn't even _know_ I could be so kinky. I know, I know--I'm all about the cougars. But I'm certain _all_ dudes my age have thought about banging their bros' moms. But not Finn--he's too much of a wimp. He has _morals._

And I didn't think I was into dumpsters, you know… like _that_. (Hell, I didn't even know people could get turned on by dumpsters!)

But--whoa, wait a minute, _hold the phone! _I had a wet dream about Kurt. And a dumpster. (Kurt _in_ the dumpster--because having a wet dream about a garbage can is _way _too weird.)

I had a wet dream, and I was doing Kurt in a dumpster. How out there is _that_? I think I would've woken up screaming from sheer terror if I hadn't been fucking _screaming_ _his name_ instead.

So I guess I'm one of those kinky, perverted bastards, who like girly boys and end up growing into an _old_ pervert who likes to invite girly boys into their house to do chores for them so they can ogle their asses.

That's kinda nasty, even for me. But that won't happen, because in the end, it's only Kurt's ass I wanna stare at. It's his body, his mouth, his voice, his eyes--.

…It's only him that makes me hard. Not Adam Lambert or some other daisy-boy.

And even if he says he's straight, who the hell is he kidding? I mean, has he _looked_ in a mirror lately? I don't think _any_ dude who was into nailing chicks would take just as long, if not longer, to do his hair in the morning as a girl. I bet he even wears lip gloss. You know, the kind that makes your lips shine and taste like fruit? I bet he wears that, because there's no way his lips should look so fucking wet and full and begging to be bitten. Yeah.

I come out of my head when I hear all the guys laughing as if Jackass were on, and Mark--or Bill, whatever--is sitting on the lid of the dumpster, keeping Kurt locked up inside.

He used to bang and rattle and whack on the rusted metal walls, and the small sounds reminded me of a trapped butterfly, struggling to get out of a glass jar. The thought of being so cruel to something so pathetic and weak makes me feel even worse for doing this to him, if that's possible.

Now he doesn't bother to make any noises anymore. It's like… he knows better, knows that no matter how much bargaining he does or how much he cries to be let out, we won't give in.

I think I killed his spirit or something, and that possibility makes me cringe with all of these weird, really uncomfortable emotions.

It's why I will always stay and wait till the dude on the dumpster hops off, and then I tell them all to head to homeroom without me-- "I'll be there, just a sec."

I'm surprised they haven't caught onto me, after all these years. Though, we _did_ believe Finn when he said something about girls having prostates. But then I Googled it and found him out, so I figure I'm smarter than they are.

And when they're all finally walking off to class, far enough away so they don't notice me anymore, I turn to the bin and slowly creak the lid open, letting the sunlight shine down into the trash bin and the putrid smell hit me in the face.

And he's always there, just huddled in a corner, _waiting._ Waiting for me to bring him light.

…I guess if I made some statement about me being Kurt's sun, that would make me very, very gay. And kind of full of myself. So I won't.

I offer my hand to him, and he almost always manages to collide into my palm: a nose, a really warm and soft cheek, something like that. And then those eyes sparkle with something--it used to be just hurt and fear and confusion, but there's always something a bit more, something I can never hope to place.

"Why do you do this, Puckerman?" He always asks.

And I always stutter--I _want_ to tell him: "I don't want to hurt you anymore. I never wanted to hurt you."

But all that comes out is, "Whatever."

Whoever's in my head would probably ask me why I still continued to let this happen to Kurt, why I don't step in and put a stop to it all. Well, I'll tell you, whoever you are: I don't like change. I can't stand change. I… I'm _afraid _of change, alright?

Sure, I'm like the leader of the football team since Finn's turned to Homo Explosion, but even I couldn't pull off being gay. I'd be kicked out--out of the team, and out of the closet. And I'd be alone. I think I hate being alone even more than I hate change.

So I go home, strip down to my boxers, and close my eyes.

And I dream of banging Kurt in a rusty, smelly dumpster, where we're safe from the world. Where a chocolate bar wrapper has somehow managed to crawl into Kurt's pants--weird.

* * *

Author's Commentary: Gah, alright. Here it is: the second and almost-final chapter of _Dumpster Fetish_. I'm kind of reluctantly impressed I managed to write it out right after the first chapter. Good job, me. I think.  
I was really nervous about doing a chapter in Puck's POV, because a lot of you mentioned how well I voiced Kurt--I had a lot of expectation to meet up to for Puck, and... well, I hope I didn't disappoint.  
So now there's just one chapter left of _DF_ (I think, because after that... It'd be pretty pointless and plotless. Or something.) and it should be out soon--I've yet to write any of it out just yet, but I'm hoping it'll come to me like this bit did.

So... until then! c:


	3. Unexpected

**Dumpster Fetish**

Ch. 3: Unexpected,

of 3 Chapters

* * *

Kurt is up at six-thirty, as usual, slapping his cell phone's alarm clock off just in the midst of a Lady GaGa chorus.

He showers, as usual (because while he showered last night it's necessary that his hair be freshly-washed pre-styling), singing along with his waterproof iPod radio as he massages citrus-y hair conditioner into his roots.

His breakfast is the ever-usual cucumber-pomegranate smoothie and a Stevia-sprinkled grapefruit half--even though he was kind of craving some home fries. The calorie pep-talk within his head, combined with the mantra _A moment on the hips, forever on the lips _keeps him faithful to fruit, for today at least.

And as usual, Kurt has _Dumpster Toss_ on his agenda at least once this week, and--hey! It looks like today's his day to mingle with trash. It's a shame, because he just had a facial the other day and the questionable contents of dumpsters aren't exactly clear complexion's best friends.

He's strutting over to McKinley's main entrance when a large, muscled arm wraps around his waist. Kurt freezes when a calloused finger accidentally grazes some skin on his hip, tries not to shudder like he's just been electrocuted (even if that's what it feels like). He knows this arm, that hand, better than he should.

Puck says nothing as he directs the two of them over to the dumpster, and Kurt's instantly suspicious when there aren't any other football-monkeys jeering and clapping their hands like lunatics for their pre-homeroom entertainment.

"Look," Puck says, but stops just before he says anything more, shaking his head with a derisive snort. "I'm… uh."

Kurt tries to be patient, he really does, but it was never one of his personality traits. (His father always said he'd gotten that from his mother.) So he tires quickly of Puck's inner conflict; drawls, "Is there any reason why we're talking by the dumpster, if you don't seem inclined to toss me into it?"

Puck glares. "How do you know I wasn't planning on chucking you in right when you least expect it?"

"Because you haven't ever helped them when they throw me in there." Kurt scoffs, a strange, confident little smirk curling his lips. "And you're a being of consistency. Can't stand change, can you?"

Puck reels back, as if hit. How did he _do that_? Not even his mother knows he despises it when she changes meatloaf dinners from Thursdays to Wednesdays. _Wednesdays._ He struggles for a cool façade. "I am," He admits, "but then again, who _does _like change?"

"Mm, good point." Kurt sighs to himself. "Well, if you're going to toss me in there, you're holding onto my jacket and messenger bag." He slips his brand-new leather tote off one shoulder. "Just leave them for me after you walk away."

Puck glares. "I'm not going to fucking throw you in!"

"Well," Kurt raises one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow. "thanks for clearing that up for me. Then what is it you want fro--_mph!_"

Kurt has to admit, as his vision swims and his oxygen is dwindling, being suffocated to death sounds very agreeable, especially when there's a tongue doing _that_ to the roof of his mouth.

Wait--_what?_

He shoves Puck off of him when his brain comprehends just what's going on.

They're rooted to the spot, Kurt's hands pressed against a solid chest (is _this_ what a six-pack feels like?), staring at each other in wide-eyed, gaping shock.

"What the-- the _hell_?!"

"Oh God, what the fuck--"

"You _barbaric_, plebian _fool_--"

"--you're controlling me, you _gay android_--"

"--didn't want to waste my first kiss! And--"

"--not supposed to have _girl_-hips--"

"--hair is _ridiculous_--"

And just then, like a hilarious sitcom, Finn approaches them. "Hey guys!" He says in that sickeningly cheerful voice of his. "What's up?"

It takes him a moment to assess the situation. "Oh, Puck," He murmurs with disappointment, "you're not going to dumpster-toss Kurt, are you? I thought you said--"

"That I have to see Mr. Schue before homeroom!" Puck intercepts loudly, his cheeks flushed even redder than before. "Thanks bud! I can always count on you to remind me of important… things. Heh."

With that, Puck is tugging his friend, who's totally lost by now (which, admittedly, isn't so surprising) towards the school, leaving a floundering Kurt behind.

* * *

Puck doesn't know why he thought spending the night at Finn's, tipsy as all hell, was a good idea, _especially_ when he was trying to keep a very vital piece of information from his best friend. Because if he'd been sober, his secret would've _stayed_ a secret--Finn isn't exactly intuitive, and even if he kind of figured something was up with his bro, Puck doubts Finn would pry.

But as it is, after a couple of natty light's, Puck isn't just an open book, he's a fucking _audio_ book.

"_I think I like Kurt," He mumbles, chucking a crushed beer can in what he thinks is in the direction of the trash can._

_Silence numero uno. "Yeah…" Finn says slowly, as if Puck is the dull one. "He's a cool guy. I've been trying to tell you that for a while now."_

"_No." Puck shakes his head fervently, and his vision's in slow-motion so when he stops moving, it takes a few moments for his eyes to readjust on Finn's confused face. "I mean, I really, really like Kurt."_

_Numero dos. "_What_?"_

"_Puck," He gestures to himself like Tarzan. Points to the remainder of their pepperoni pizza, still sitting in its greasy box. "Kurt." Finn is starting to look worried now. "Fuck want to puck Kurt."_

_More awkward silence, and Finn looks disturbed. "You want to…?"_

"_Bang him," Puck supplies, ever the helpful bro._

"_You're _gay_?"_

_The way Finn says it (like it's some ailment), the way he looks when he says it (eyebrows raised impossibly high, mouth hanging open), _everything_, rubs Puck in the wrong way. He fidgets in his suddenly too warm, too constricting clothes._

"_No," He shakes his head again, partially to disagree, and also, just because he likes how unreal everything looks. "I'm _not_ gay."_

"_But you like Kurt."_

"_But I like Kurt." Sage nod._

_He thinks that four silences is enough for one night. "I don't feel so great."_

_And he promptly spews chunks, all over Kurt the Pepperoni Pizza._

"Sorry_," He moans, mostly to Finn (but also to Kurt--he knows the pretty-boy pizza would probably hate to be anything other than immaculate)._

Puck shakes his head as he storms down the halls to wait out third period math in the gym. He was such an _idiot._

But he can't help but to feel relieved, like one weight's been lifted off his chest. Sure, they've both got an aversion to pepperoni pizza now, but Finn _knows._ He knows and he hasn't flipped out yet. Even Puck thinks this all might be a reprieve from the Good Lord.

Now, he just needs to make sure Finn keeps his trap shut about it, because the _last_ thing he wants is for the glee club to know his secret.

* * *

Kurt doesn't know why, but he hasn't told Mercedes anything about this morning. It's unusual, yeah, because Kurt tells his female (and less fashionable) counterpart _everything,_ from what he saw on a new YouTube video to his one toenail on his left foot that _just won't_ grow properly, ever since he'd dropped a jar of moisturizer on it. (Though he told her that he slipped and dropped the jar, when, in reality, he'd been practicing the dance moves to _She Wolf_.) But now Kurt has this weird code of silence about anything concerning Puck. He doesn't reveal that the man he's drooling over isn't Finn anymore, but Puck, best friend of Finn but most definitely _not_ Finn.

It's not like he _cares_ if Mercedes "accidentally" tells other Gleeks, and they tell more people, because so what if it gets around that Puck came onto him before first period? Sure, it would kind of ruin Puck, but Kurt didn't think that mattered.

Until he thought of "Whatever" and finger-calluses really nice abs.

And now he's near-bursting with all of his suppression. He's used to expressing _everything_, because he's always had a bit of a problem with self-restraint, even if he might offend someone. (But really, did that girl even _think_ of how orange paisley would never, in a million years, go with a soft pink plaid cardigan?) It feels like he's a really disgusting pimple, and just one pinprick will make him explode.

He subtly shudders at his metaphor, blames Pimpled Ogre-Jock for disrupting his mental peace (because all it would take is a bit of Clearasil and astringent to cure _one_ of his problems).

Kurt would've told Mercedes about his crush by now, but he knew if Mercedes asked _why_ he even set his eyes on Puck longer than it took to assess his really bad fashion sense, he knows he would be as strong as putty. Sadie would know all about his first kiss faster than he could say "Technicolor Zebra".

When his French teacher, Madame Badin, asks him where grandma went, without a moment's hesitation, Kurt replies, "_Grand-mère allé au supermarché pour les abricots._"

He prides himself in his multitasking abilities as he inconspicuously files his nails beneath his desk.

* * *

"I don't like you."

Kurt's slightly startled, but he covers his spastic jump with an annoyed shoulder-twitch. "Puckerman."

"You're just…" Puck trails off as Kurt turns to look at him with glaring pale

hazel eyes.

"What?" _Attractive? Cute? _Kurt asks silently in his mind. He doesn't know why his stomach is doing nervous somersaults now.

"You look like a girl," Puck offers after a moment spent doing weird hand-twitching and blushing.

"_Thank you._" Kurt drawls acerbically, his glare turning arctic. He feels a sudden rush of resentment for that corset he wore that one day. "Really. If that's all…?"

"_No_, that's _not_ all," Puck growls, stepping forward like a man on a mission. Kurt inadvertently takes a step back, but makes up for it by moving forward two shuffles. (Never show fear in the face of the predator.) He might have seen a sparkle of amusement in those dark eyes for just a moment, but Kurt thinks it could've been the afternoon lighting.

"Then what would you like from me now? You already took my first kiss," Kurt snaps with a lack of venom even Puck notices. "I'd like to save my virginity for someone who doesn't think I'm a… _gay android_."

The jock flushes an interesting shade of red at that, and Kurt would've been more amused had his own face not heated up.

"Um… I--"

"Look," Kurt sighs, holding his hand up. "I can only imagine how bad you are at self-expression and admitting your _feelings_, so let me make this simpler, for the both of us. You're just sex-depraved since pool season is winding down to a close for the year, and I am just… _femme_ enough to catch your interest." He feels disgusted with himself for sinking this low, all to comfort a confused (sexy) bi-curious jock. "We'll just pass this off as a slip caused by accidental teenage hormones. Now I _really_ need to get home--"

"Fucking--_stop it_!" Puck slams him up against a wide oak trunk, and Kurt gasps at the feel of bark digging into his back. He will _kill_ him, Kurt vows, if his jacket has even _one _spec of dirt on it. "I'm trying to--_God!_"

They stay there for a minute, Puck gripping onto Kurt's arms with bruising force and Kurt trying not to feel dizzy at the feel of warm, minty breath puffing against his face. Their eyes are locked, and for one impossibly long moment, Kurt thinks, _he's going to kiss me again--I _want_ him to kiss me again._

But then some guys are chortling in the distance, and the trance is shattered, blowing like flower petals in the breeze to some other place.

"I've gotta go," Kurt mutters, pushing Puck off of him in a surprising show of strength, and scuttles off to his Navigator like the coward he knows he is.

* * *

Later on, Kurt pauses in the kitchen, biting his lip as he stares down at his protein bar. He looks to the freezer, where he knows his stash of Ben and Jerry's is.

A moment's hesitation, then _Fuck it_.

He trudges into his basement living room with a modest pint of _Phish Food_, fully intent on wallowing in dairy and _Ugly Betty_ for the rest of the night.

* * *

Puck wakes up, panting and sweating and all kinds of hot and bothered. He kicks off his blankets with his feet, a hand already stealing beneath constricting boxer-shorts and wrapping around his hard, hot length.

He thinks about how hot Kurt looks when he blushes. How it would be to fuck him up against a tree, holding their hands above their heads as he slams in and out…

And the tight coil in his stomach explodes, orgasm momentarily killing him, when he thinks of soft, cherry-flavored lips and that voice whispering _I want you._

Author's Commentary: So I realize this is a completely pathetic end to _Dumpster Fetish_. But I felt like... If I even attempted to stuff _half_ the situations I have in mind, into this one chapter, things would be too overwhelming.  
Which is why I have plans of one-shots and short stories in the future for this 'verse. Hopefully, you'll all be interested in reading them... c:

**ALSO:** Remember to check out my community on LiveJournal, "nevernoon"--that's where I post all of my Puckurt fic. And you can find my stories, as well as others', in the other LJ community, "puckurt" (an amazing community, by the way!!).

Until next time, lovelies!


End file.
